


Will Someone Stuff My Porcelain Dolls? They Aren't Hollow Enough VI

by NoSirNotMeNotEver



Series: Will Someone Stuff My Porcelain Dolls? They're Not Hollow Enough [6]
Category: Impulse (Comics), The Flash (Comics), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Bub Kink, By the aggressor, Diapers, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Feminization, Forced Isolation, Grooming, Huh been a while since I've added that one sorry, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oooo last part, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Underage - Freeform, Victim Blaming, bottles, emotional/psychological manipulation, etc - Freeform, slash Abuser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:02:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29922108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoSirNotMeNotEver/pseuds/NoSirNotMeNotEver
Summary: Bart knew that Uncle Max was a bad man.Of course he knew that.It just seemed like no one else knew it.Nobody else but him.Which he was fine with.Because Uncle Max was his own monster, one that Uncle Max told him that he had created, what with "teasing" him all the time.
Relationships: Bart Allen/Max Crandall, Bart Allen/Max Mercury, Bart Allen/Preston Lindsay
Series: Will Someone Stuff My Porcelain Dolls? They're Not Hollow Enough [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2178582
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Will Someone Stuff My Porcelain Dolls? They Aren't Hollow Enough VI

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags before you read! :D

Bart knew that Uncle Max was a bad man.

Of course he knew that. 

It just seemed like no one else knew it.

Nobody else but him.

Which he was fine with.

Because Uncle Max was his own monster, one that Uncle Max told him that he had created, what with "teasing" him all the time.

In the beginning, he had tried to tell Uncle Max no, that he didn't like it, but after a while, his throat grew too sore for him to protest.

Besides, Uncle Max was a bad man that liked to hurt him.

He would probably hurt anyone that he would try tell, too.

So he tried to be subtle, tried to secretly tell Carol and Preston and even Tim, but he was always brushed off.

He hated it.

Because at first, it had been fine.

He had been forced to wear panties at school and all day, and then it had progressed to the plugs, and then the sounding, and then the diapers. 

But that was nothing compared to how Uncle Max liked to play with his head.

He rarely moved without wincing, so sore that sometimes he just wanted to collapse.

His legs hurt and his throat hurt and his belly hurt the most, so cramped from countless enemas that every second was painful.

Those boys teasing him in the locker room had been his last chance to tell, falling to his knees in front of his vice principal, prepared to lick him, too, just like how Uncle Max liked.

He didn't care anymore; he just wanted things   
how they were before. 

Mr. Sheridan had noticed, but not for the right reasons, and had called Uncle Max.

While they waited at the school, Mr. Sheridan gently asked him who taught him that. 

Bart wanted to tell him, really, but then Uncle Max had pulled up in the car and he had been forced to leave. 

After that, he never saw Mr. Sheridan again, or any of his friends.

Now, he had little scars on his tongue from where his tongue had been shoved onto his teeth, the phantom feeling of a bottle filled with Uncle Max's seed forcing its way down him throat. 

After that, he had mostly given up hope, had started to play right into Uncle Max's trap, had started to believe what he said.

Uncle Max told him that he liked being treated this way; he had no choice but to believe him.

If yah can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Or whatever Kon always said. 

He had cried the night Uncle Max had told him they were leaving, Dox curled up against him and for once not trying to fuck him, too, his tiny doggy knowing that Bart wasn't happy. 

Dox had licked his face and nuzzled his hands, like he used to before Uncle Max had made him fuck him. 

That made him cry, too. 

He didn't want to leave Manchester, and yet, he had let Uncle Max dress him in his diaper and socks and garters and dress. 

He didn't care anymore; just pretended to be good so that Uncle Max wouldn't punish him again.

He knew that one day, he wouldn't have to pretend, that he would like it, honest.

Because one day he would get hard all on his own, and that would be the day that Uncle Max completely had him in his grasp.

He had hated the drive, too.

His legs were spread the entire time, Uncle Max's hands squeezing his dick through his diaper so hard it made tears brim his eyes, and he felt Dox press against his cage, whining.

It made tears actually fall from his eyes, knowing that in this new world, no one would really protect him. 

Uncle Max just wanted to use him, and Dox just wanted a mount. 

He was just a toy, one for Uncle Max to use and to play with.

Bart knew that he hadn't dissuaded Uncle Max's thoughts, though, so that was his fault, too. 

His only reprieve was at the gas station, the worker there watching them with wide eyes, but he was so, so tired, unable to do anything but uselessly cry as Uncle Max took him into the bathroom and fucked him before changing his diaper yet again, the poor thing wet with piss because he couldn't control his bladder anymore. 

And then Uncle Max took him back to the car and gave him some "medicine" to make him go to sleep.

He hated it.

He hated every second of it.

And yet, he knew that as soon as he left Uncle Max's grasp, he knew that he would be truly alone.

He knew that Uncle Max touched him while he was asleep, too, but for once, he didn't mind. 

He was just so tired. 

He wanted Carol and Preston and Mike and Rolly and Wade and he wanted Helen and Dox to be his good doggy again and, hell, he would even take Wally's constant put-downs instead of this. 

He would do anything. 

And yet, he stayed. 

When Bart woke up, he was in a different bed, inside of a different house. 

"Uncle Max?"

No answer.

Bart slowly sat up, and he rubbed at his eyes, strangely exhausted. 

"Uncle Max?!"

He felt panic race up his spine, and he tried to get up from bed, only for a strange, inhuman howl to leave his lips. 

It made him fall to his knees as his legs crumpled, a searing agony muffling his frantic heaves for air.

He barely registered Uncle Max racing into the room, setting him on the bed, a calm hand running through his hair.

"'S okay, Bub. 'S alright. I know it hurts, but yah hafta stay still."

A sob left his lips, Uncle Max's smile right above him, and Bart tensed as a hand pressed against his diaper.

"Look at yah, yah took to it so well."

Uncle Max tied him to the bed, and he wasn't released until the next day.

Uncle Max told him that he had fixed his legs, and that he wouldn't be able to walk very much anymore.

"B-But why? Why, Uncle Max?!"

Bart whimpered, crying uselessly as Uncle Max kissed down his chest, his hands shaking in disbelief as Uncle Max licked up his dick.

For once, he was without the diaper, his dick leaking an embarrassing amount of piss and precome alike.

"Puh-lease!"

"Oh, Bub; yah know why. 'S that I can always keep yah close."

Bart tiredly woke up, and he weakly heaved himself out of bed, pressing a kiss to Uncle Max's forehead before he limped to the stairs, only to be forced to crawl the rest of the way down.

Going down the stairs still hurt so badly that it terrified him, that he would hurt his legs again and never actually be able to walk again, so he didn't walk down the stairs.

But he managed to rise to his feet and hobble his way to the kitchen, Dox looking up at him from his dog bed.

"Hafta go potty?"

Bart quietly asked so that he didn't wake up Uncle Max, and he let Dox out at the sound of his doggy's whine, making Bart clear his head.

Every day, he was acting more and more like the little boy Uncle Max had molded him into, now taking bottles with ease and eager to wear the sound and the diaper at the same time, Uncle Max's special pacifier down his throat when he wasn't suckling on a real pacifier, a plug in his hole. 

But this was one of the few minutes out of the normal brainwashed hell he lived in that he was, thankfully, empty. 

He wasn't naked by any means, as he was wearing lingerie —although it wasn't Uncle Max's favorite pair— but it was better than having to wear the diaper. 

He had managed to regain some bladder control, though he was still at risk for accidents.

He...he didn't mind wetting himself as much anymore, especially because it made Uncle Max so happy.

Bart let Dox outside, his doggy no longer trying to fuck him, and Bart was so, so glad for that.   
He hadn't been able to find safety in anything, but now, almost a year later since he and Uncle Max had moved in, Dox was able to be considered a friend again.

Bart made his way back to the kitchen and started to cook Uncle Max his breakfast, and his stomach quietly rumbled, but he looked away from the food, knowing that his breakfast would most likely be a bottle of Uncle Max's seed. 

Bart eagerly brought the food to Uncle Max's table before he knelt at his own, kiddy-sized table, and he patiently waited for Uncle Max to come downstairs, making sure that Uncle Max saw his panties. 

And sure enough, the man walked down the stairs less than five minutes later, rubbing his eyes in a way that made Bart's dick twitch and his heart ache.

"Good boy, Bub. Sucha good boy."

"Thank yah, Uncle Max–"

"No more 'Uncle,' Bub. Jus' Max."

Bart's brows furrowed, and he licked his lips, confused.

But that was okay. 

Uncle Max told him that he was making him dumber. 

So he didn't worry about it too much.

"But why, Unc– Max?"

"Because, boy; yah're thir'teen. An' boys that turn thir'teen ain't little babies anymore."

"N-No?"

"No. Teenagers get married."

He should've known that everything would change, and this time, for better and for worse. 

Because everything he had known —diapers and pacifiers and bottles— was harshly traded for even more dresses and panties and skirts.

He hated every bit of it.

But for Uncle Max, he would endure. 

He– he couldn't endure. 

He couldn't handle it. 

He was drowning in Max, Max, Max, and he was terrified that he would never surface.

After all, it's hard to swim when your Achilles Tendons have been cut. 

He didn't know what possessed him to sneak out as much as he could and crawl his way, on his hands and knees, over to the remnants of Max's car. 

His dress and apron were ruined, and his socks were definitely destroyed as he dragged himself through the woods, but he had to be quick.

Any minute, Max would be back from the store, and he needed to get to the phone in Max's car, the phone he knew was still intact from the last time he had snuck out like this.

It seemed to take another eon before he was heaving himself into the charred bits of the car, and he hastily clicked in a number, praying that he could reach anyone. 

It took another few seconds, but then Bart heard the click of someone answering, making him sigh in relief.

"Max? 'Ello?"

"'S not Max, Pres'. I– I need yah to get me, please. Runnin' outta time."

"Bart?! Whatcha mean, yah're runnin' outta time? Stahp, calm down for a sec!"

"Max got me locked up good, Pres'. Please, get someone ta help me, please! Get Helen or– or Carol or someone! Puh-lease!"

Bart begged, trembling violently, and he looked down at the clock on the phone, freezing.

Max would be home soon, and he had to make him dinner, or else he would be forced to ride him without being able to come, or some other humiliating punishment.

"Wait, Bart, slow down, what–"

"'M gotta go, Pres', puh-lease! Help meh, please!"

Bart hurried to hang up, and then he crawled his way back out of the woods and to the house, shaking and hoping that Preston would get someone to help him. 

He did get help, just in a very different way.

Every time Max went out, Bart slunk his way to the old car and called Preston, begging him for help, until they came up with a plan because no one had listened to Preston, let alone believed him.

"Bart, I– I can steal mah dad's car. An'– an' I can try ta drive down."

Bart shook his head before he replied, trembling.

"Naw, don'. Preston, we're fourteen, yah don' have yah license yet–"

"'M gettin' a farmers license. I qualify fo' one. So 'm gettin' a license and then I'll drive up an' save yah."

Bart frantically nodded, though he knew that he would have to wait another year until he was saved, at least. 

Most likely, he would be saving himself and then waiting for Preston.

He had thought about killing Max, ending his suffering, but something always stopped him. 

He wanted to say that it was because of his morals, but he knew the real reason why.  
It was because he couldn't kill the man he loved. 

Until he did, another year later.

Max hoisted Bart up, and he carried him to bed, Bart letting his legs uselessly drape over Max's arms as he nuzzled into the man's chest. 

"Mmm; Max, 'm hard a-gain."

"Good; like yah that way."

Bart let Max settle him into the bed, and he whined as Max kissed up his leg, hot breath ghosting over his kisses and making Bart whine. 

From there, all Max did was sheath himself into him, and Max quietly groaned, his nose buried into his shoulder as he gently rocked his hips forward, Max moaning loudly as he wrapped his arms and legs tighter around Max, clutching Max against him.

"Puh-lease, Max! Fast-ah! Don' go slow,   
puh-lease!"

Bart gasped as Max sped up his hips, rocketing forward as he huffed softly. 

"Grife! C'mon, Max, puh-lease!"

He pressed Max deeper into his heavily-bruised neck, and his shoulders shook with little sobs as he whimpered.

He felt Max's eyes widen; terrified if he had hurt him.

Now.

Bart quietly reached for the knife hidden under the pillow, and he took a quick breath, preparing himself to pith Max.

"Bart, are yah–"

Quiet, for once.

Peaceful, beautiful silence. 

Bart dropped the knife, and he held Max's corpse to him, heaving for air as he sobbed, clutching the man to him from where he was still inside of him. 

He heard the clatter of the knife, but he didn't register it, trembling as he wept.

Peaceful, beautiful silence.

Preston picked him up a few days later, the both of them hastily hiding the body, Preston carrying him when it hurt too badly to walk. 

They were no longer bright-eyed twelve-year-olds. 

Instead, they were fifteen, and filled with so much trauma to bear. 

"Why...why'd yah not answer me for a year?"

Preston froze at the question, and he took in a shaky breath, Bart in the passenger of his pickup truck, the one he stole from his dad.

"Mah mom came home."

"Oh, Pres'."

Preston huffed out a laugh, looking over at where Bart was holding his hand, now dressed in normal clothes. 

It made him feel soft in a way that made him want to cry. 

"Don' look a' me like that. Yah...yah were kidnapped for three years an'...an' now yah're actin' like I got the short end o' the stick."

Preston breathed, and he watched as Bart sort-of went limp, melting back into the seat.   
"Yah did. I know...I know that yah loved yah mum."

"An' I know that yah loved Max in yah weird way, too."

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Preston watched as Bart stared out into the sunset from where the both of them were sitting on their hill, and he sat down next to him, looking out at the sky before he wrapped a woolen blanket around his best friend, tucking the other end around his own shoulders as he pressed Bart into his side.

"I– I didn't mean to. Kill him, I mean."

Bart finally broke the silence, and Preston nodded.

He already knew that. 

"I know."

Preston looked back at the sky, taking comfort in the softness he felt with Bart, and he buried his nose into Bart's shoulders before helping the smaller boy up, Bart's knees trembling as the both of them stumbled to their tent. 

"It's alright; it's alright."

The both of them were tripping over each other, exhausted from their third month of being on the run, terrified of what would happen if they were caught.

Bart had killed a man, and Preston had stolen his dad's car in order to help Bart escape.

Preston knew that they wouldn't get terribly in trouble, as Bart technically killed in self-defense, but if things went South....

Bart was practically a cripple.  
He'd die in prison.

Preston uselessly heaved Bart into their tent, and he curled up close to his boyfriend, bringing their blankets over them to help protect them from the cold that constantly persisted. 

The both of them were doing pretty remarkably, Preston had to admit, as he had run away from his abusive mother and Bart had escaped from a psychotic rapist. 

They would be okay, together.  
They always were.

And he was counting on that, as he pressed kisses to Bart's belly, to keep them safe.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's all for this series, folks! I hope you liked how it turned out :)
> 
> Also, sorry if the writing is a little wonky; I wrote it originally in my home language and tried to translate as I went instead of doing it after like I usually do :)


End file.
